


The Way You Say You're Sorry

by kutubiyya



Series: Distractions and Complications [3]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Broady winds up his mates in every possible way, Fluff, M/M, Making Up, Male Friendship, Photography, Suits, dumb boys climbing on roofs to avoid talking about their feelings, interfering friendship that is, pretty men in suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: Jimmy tightens his grip around the neck of the wine bottle, picturing in his head what he saw of the building from the outside, earlier. This isn’t the venue for the awards that Jimmy’s used to, the place where he invariably used to sneak off somewhere private with Fred, or someone else. But it must have a quiet corner; somewhere with a view. At least three floors up, he reckons. Let’s get hammered—
  “So is Cooky avoiding me, or you?”

  …Swanny had to spoil it, didn’t he?
--In which, essentially, Jimmy's friends tell him he's an idiot, over and over again.(London, Nottingham, and Leicester, October 1st-November 4th, 2014)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the unlikely event that anyone who's reading this doesn't know about cricket, here are my leading men around the time this fic is set: [Jimmy](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/99040297222), suited up at the Professional Cricketers' Association awards at the start of October; and [Alastair](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/99806039277/plumjaffas), a few weeks later, having achieved peak fluffy-haired farmer during his two months off.
> 
> The first chapter is set at the PCA ~~piss-up~~ awards ceremony, in London. Here are Jimmy and his Lancashire teammates [doing pre-drinks on the train](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/98959717132/abbcce-pjhorton20-boys-on-the-rattler-down-to). The venue for the 2014 Awards was Old Billingsgate, [which looks like this](http://www.oldbillingsgate.co.uk/index.html). ([Another view here, with more of the roof](http://www.pureconsult.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/ws6.jpg).) And here is [ Jimmy receiving the award for Test Cricketer of the Summer](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/99123248817/plumjaffas-i-could-not-love-these-tweets-more), from none other than Graeme Swann.
> 
> Bonus blokes-looking-hot-in-suits pic: [Colly and his award](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/99040232662/abbcce-royal-london-cup-player-of-the-year-pca). And [some gifs from the same night](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/99390217132/omgkiesy-pca-award-2014-re-knockmeforsixs), including of Broady and Titch, both of whom will turn up in subsequent chapters.

_How can you look at me and smile_  
_After all and everything you said_  
_There are things about you_  
_That don’t fit together in my head_  
\--Guillemots, ‘Last Kiss’  
([listen/watch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ea0Aeu2pOKM) NB don't ask, idek; [lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/guillemots/lastkiss.html))

 

\--

 

Everyone knows, right, that the PCA awards are basically a monumental piss-up.

Everyone knows that. You get suited and booted, you do pre-drinks on the train, you help yourself to lot of free booze at the party itself, and you don’t pay too much attention to who’s winning. Unless it’s someone from your county, in which case it’s the most important thing _ever_.

Everyone knows that. But Jimmy’s brain? Not got the memo, this year. Probably because the memo went round by Snapchat or something, and who the fuck has time for that?

Oh, he’s suited, all right: a lovely smooth three-piece that fits like a dream. (He looks fucking amazing, actually – not that any of this lot will notice or care – even in a blue and purple lighting scheme that isn’t doing anyone any favours.) And he’s at least two-thirds of the way to being off his face; Crofty’s been making sure of that. (On that thought, Jimmy downs his current drink. Grimaces a bit at the taste. Fuck the James Bond act, he should’ve stuck to beer.)

All that’s fine. It’s the _who’s winning_ bit that’s the issue.

Specifically, him. He’s winning. Has won. Test player of the summer. He’s been photographed with a novelty cheque, and everything.

Test player of the summer, in a year when he single-handedly lost a down-to-the-wire Test series. Test player of the summer, in a year when he ran his mouth so much he almost got banned from playing. Test player of the summer, when he’s been more trouble than he’s worth, to team and management alike.

(And captain.)

And, okay, he bowled all right against India in the end, but still… Test player of the summer?

He doesn’t know what to do with this; how to feel about it. There’s a word, and it starts with _ambi_ , but he’s lost it in the vodka martinis. (Ambiguous? That might be it.) And the one person in the room – the one _person_ , full stop – who might understand why he’s so confused and conflicted is the one person he can’t talk to about it.

Because that person is sitting over on the Essex table: caught in a spotlight the colour of a bruise, some guy’s arm around him. He hasn’t said a word to Jimmy all evening, and, okay, neither has _Jimmy_ to _him_ , but—

But Swanny’s here. Swanny presented the cheque. They did the photo. Swanny’ll know what to do.

On that thought, Jimmy crosses the high-ceilinged room – drifting through a blur of back pats from rat-arsed cricketers, past the strained smiles of serving staff battling an endless tide of emptied glasses – and plonks himself down in an empty chair next to Swanny.

It occurs to him, more or less as his arse hits the dark blue cushion, that this might be a bad move. Like, strategically. Swanny and Ali aren’t friends. But him and Ali aren’t friends at the moment, either, maybe. Does that mean it all cancels out? Hard to say. He’s not going to look at the Essex table again to find out.

Swanny, for his part, has other concerns.

“God, I feel old. Look at them all. So young.” Swanny waves an arm at the room at large, but Jimmy assumes he’s looking at the tables of players, rather than the ones surrounded by executives and press and support staff. “They probably weren’t even _born_ when I started playing. They’re barely out of the womb now as it is. How are they allowed to drink? They _can’t_ be allowed to drink. There are laws against that sort of thing, right?”

“You’re not old.” Jimmy sniffs. “Look at Colly, and he just won… something. A prize. Right?”

Swanny nods, sagely. “He did. God bless Colly.” His head sways, surveying the throng until he spots the man he’s looking for. “ _Shit_ , he looks good. He doesn’t look… how old is he, now? Thirty-eight?”

“Something like that.”

“ _Christ_. …Sorry.”

(Swanny’s the only one. The only one who does that and then apologises for it. It means something, has always meant something. Too complicated for this time of the night, though. This much alcohol.)

Jimmy finds his gaze is wandering towards the Essex table; pretends he was actually just looking over at the stage, although since it’s quiet and dark and completely empty, now its role in the evening is done, this does little to hold his attention.

Turns back, instead, and grins at Swanny. “Want to get out of here?”

“ _Yes_. A thousand times yes. I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

Jimmy grabs a mostly full bottle of red from Swanny’s table, and Swanny’s arm. A few people vaguely react to them as they go, but without much surprise because, well: they’re Jimmy and Swanny, aren’t they? Swanny and Jimmy. Jimmyandswanny. Always together. Everyone knows _that_ , too. Right?

Just like the old days. Jimmy smiles to himself as they pass through the margins of the party, leading the other man through a double doorway and down a hallway where their footsteps echo. Then a right turn, up the type of big, wide staircase that makes you feel like you should be wearing a long coat that would sweep out behind you as you move. Quite impressive, this place, to say it used to be a fish market.

He tightens his grip around the neck of the wine bottle, picturing in his head what he saw of the building from the outside, earlier. This isn’t the venue for the awards that Jimmy’s used to, the place where he invariably used to sneak off somewhere private with Fred, or someone else. But it must have a quiet corner; somewhere with a view. At least three floors up, he reckons. _Let’s get hammered_ —

“So is Cooky avoiding me, or you?”

…Swanny had to spoil it, didn’t he?

Because now Jimmy can’t shut out the memory of Ali’s voice: _I lied to Alice, for this_. He can’t shut out the awkward silence – the lack of argument – when he offered to leave. Or the silence (different; empty) that greeted his knock on Ali’s door, the next morning.

Jimmy sighs, heavily. He waits until they’ve reached the next floor. Then he waits some more, setting off up the next flight of stairs – shadows deepening with every step, the music from downstairs reduced to a dull, repetitive thud – before he says anything.

“Both, I think.”

Swanny’s reply, when it comes, is quiet. “What did you do?”

Jimmy’s not going to bother disputing that, or being affronted at the stone-dead lack of surprise in Swanny’s voice.

“It’s complicated.”

“Bollocks. You just don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Jimmy chooses not to look round, not to see the other man’s response to this; concentrates instead on what he’s looking for. At last, a couple more staircases up, he spies an open sash window. He leans out for a look: there’s a ledge just below, a perfect foot rest.

You can almost always – he reflects, with some satisfaction – find your way onto the roofs of places, if you’re paying enough attention to the layout, and reasonably agile.

(And, ok, yeah, drunk enough to not care about insurance.)

He pushes up the sash as high as it’ll go, which isn’t high: the wood of the frame squeaks and judders in protest, and sticks at chest level. This, he hangs onto, one-handed, as he clambers onto the shiny, gloss-painted windowsill and slots his lower body through the gap. Getting Swanny to hold the wine bottle might’ve been wiser, in retrospect, but fuck it, he’s halfway out now. He plants his arse firmly on the sill, shuffling up to the right-hand edge to leave space for Swanny. Braces his feet against the ledge outside, knees bent, and his forearm against the inside of the sash frame. Toys with the idea of climbing out completely, round onto the little ornamental balustrade, but he’s not _that_ drunk. Instead, keeping his forearm pressed up the sash frame, he bends down until his head is clear of glass and he can feel the breeze from the river on his face.

Releases a breath that’s part exhilaration, part contentment into cool, night air.

He hears Swanny clear his throat, behind him. “As ways to avoid talking about your feelings go, this is quite extreme, even by your standards.”

“I’m not… _avoiding_. I’m checking out the view.” Jimmy uses the bottle to gesture at the river; at Tower Bridge, all lit up. “Getting some air. Being _young_. That sort of thing.”

“If you die, I’m going to hunt down your ghost and slap it repeatedly about the head. I just want you to know that.”

“Would _I_ lead you into danger?” Jimmy sits up and looks back, eyebrows arched.

Swanny’s hovering a few steps back, face mostly in shadow; but he’s smirking a bit. “I think we’ve been pretty even on that score, over the years.”

“Fair.” Jimmy leans down again and grins at the night sky. Gives it a minute, then says, “If I die, I’ll follow you around. Mock you for being too chicken to come and join me.” He makes what he likes to think is a passable stab at a chicken noise.

“I may be chicken, but you’ll be a ghost. Call me old-fashioned, but on balance I really think I’ll have won that one.”

“Pfft. I won’t die if you’re here to stop me rolling off the roof.”

“Or, we’ll _both_ die, because you’ll just drag me down with you.”

And _that_ hits home. “Drag you down,” Jimmy mutters, after a moment, staring at the bottle. “Yeah. Good at that, me.”

Silence behind him, then the vibration of footsteps and a creak as the other man takes tentative hold of the windowframe. Jimmy watches from the corner of his eye as Swanny, swearing under his breath, manoeuvres himself until he’s straddling the sill. Jimmy shifts, sitting up and drawing his left arm, the one holding the wine bottle, back inside, angling it so his elbow’s pointing towards Swanny. After a moment, there’s a hand, clutching his upper arm – the grip’s familiar, welcome, Jimmy’s companion on many an evening more tipsy than this – then Swanny’s other leg is through.

Swanny leans heavily on Jimmy’s shoulder as he settles himself. The sill’s only _just_ big enough for two and he ends up sitting right up against Jimmy, leaning into him; Jimmy adjusts, automatically. When everything’s still, he takes a hefty swig of the wine. (Important to show you’re unbothered by sitting up on a roof four – five? – storeys above the ground.) Passes the bottle across, swallowing down the dry, heavy taste.

Swanny looks at the bottle a moment, then has a hearty glug before passing it back. His head drops onto Jimmy’s shoulder; an arm tucks itself around Jimmy’s back, hand resting just above his hip. Jimmy presses his forehead against the glass and smiles out at the lights of the river bank, without really seeing them; how many nights have they sat like this? Many. Many nights.

“Thanks,” he says, at length, after they’ve passed the bottle back and forth several more times. It comes out more gruffly than he means it to.

Swanny grunts. “Bet you’re wishing I was Cooky.”

Jimmy feels himself tense up: shoulders, hands, throat. He keeps his tone as bland as possible. “I can have more than one friend.”

“Yeah, but Cooky’s a _special_ friend.”

Jimmy shrugs, almost dislodging Swanny’s head, by accident. “You’re special, too.”

A beat, then Swanny cackles. Jimmy groans, swaying to knock his head gently against the glass.

“Can’t believe I fell for that.” He elbows the still-chuckling Swanny in the ribs. “Stop fishing for compliments.”

“You’re such an easy mark when you’re pissed.”

Jimmy waves the bottle sort of more or less in front of Swanny’s face. “The rest of this wine’s going over your head in a minute.”

Swanny pats Jimmy’s hip. “I’d say it’d be a shame to waste it, but to be honest… it’s not that good, is it?”

“No.” Jimmy has another swig. The stuff’s making his teeth feel vaguely furry. “But I’m at the stage of the night where I’m not that picky.”

“Nor am I. Pass it over.”

This time, Jimmy drapes an arm around Swanny’s shoulders while the other man drinks.

Noise spills up the stairwell and into the hallway behind them: voices, laughter.

“Find somewhere else,” Jimmy yells, without looking round. “This spot’s taken.”

A wolf whistle; more laughter. (Jimmy’s fairly sure that distinctive bellow of a laugh belongs to Stokesy.) A stage-whispered discussion about who Jimmy’s here with. Jimmy realises that he and Swanny are just silhouettes against the night sky, here, and holds his breath. Afraid he’s going to hear the word _Cooky_ , afraid of rumours swirling beyond Broady and Swanny, afraid that this’ll fuel those rumours. (Even if Ali is, in reality, downstairs.)

“Night, lads,” calls Swanny, pointedly.

An unseen chorus of _ohhhh, of course_ , then fresh giggling and receding footsteps.

Jimmy releases his held breath. Misdirection. It’s a while before he speaks again.

“We don’t really do this sort of thing,” he says, and he doesn’t really know why he does it, why he’s voluntarily returning to this discussion, except that he’s relieved Swanny’s put them off the scent. He lets his arm drop from Swanny’s shoulders, and takes back the wine. “Me and Cooky.”

“What, get pissed and sit on roofs? Maybe because he’s got more sense than us two.”

“No” –Jimmy pauses, briefly, to swallow his mouthful of wine— “I mean… sit. Like this.”

“Cuddling?”

Jimmy gives Swanny a look. It’s wasted, of course; the other man isn’t watching. “Yeah.”

“Really? _Never_? Come on. Even with Cooky’s stamina, you can’t be making the beast with two ridiculously attractive backs _every_ waking moment, surely. There has to be time for _some_ cuddling.”

“Nope. And that’s part of the reason why. Bloody stupid word. Toddlers _cuddle_ their teddy bears.”

Swanny grunts. “Ug. Me man. Me no cuddle.”

“Fuck off,” Jimmy says, mildly. “I just like my own space.”

“So what are you doing _now_ , then?”

“This is different. It’s different with you.”

Swanny rolls his head so he’s looking up at Jimmy. He bats his eyelashes, badly. “Because I’m special?”

Jimmy hands him the bottle to shut him up. “Something like that.”

Swanny sits up; drains the wine to the dregs. “Have you ever thought,” he says, when he’s wiped his mouth, leaving a pink streak across the back of his hand, “that maybe it’s not just about you?”

Jimmy doesn’t reply; for once, not because he’s choosing to ignore Swanny, but because his brain is busy turning over what the other man has said. He’s still thinking about it, later, as he slopes back down from the Old Billingsgate roof to find half the Essex table looking daggers at him – and Ali nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastair and Swanny fell out in the first part of the current series, ['When We're Not Pretending'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6990973/chapters/15930598).


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy’s been driving for the best part of two hours – the M6 is never, _ever_ fun – and he hasn’t even had chance to clear a space so he can sit down on the bloody sofa when Broady calls through from the kitchen, his voice full of gleeful animation.

“So. How’re things with you and Cooky?”

Jimmy draws in a weary breath, looking down at the woolly jumper (which must be huge even on Broady) and the Xbox controller in his hands. _Your guess is as good as mine_ , he doesn’t quite say. Normally he and Ali would talk on the phone during an extended break, especially in the build up to a tour. Not this time; just a couple of stilted exchanges by text, stretched out over days.

“Jim?” Broady’s there beside him, holding out a beer.

Jimmy shrugs, awkwardly; ditches the things he’s holding and takes the cold bottle without meeting Broady’s gaze. He tries the same answer he gave Swanny, a month ago. “It’s… complicated.”

A beat. “Shit. What happened?”

Jimmy remembers reaching a realisation, alone in the hotel room he’d only booked for show, and how sick he felt when it hit: that he’d convinced himself, somehow, that things were different for Ali.

It wasn’t that Jimmy had forgotten Alice existed. But on some not-quite-conscious level he’d been imagining that Ali felt less guilty over their affair than he did.

(That Ali was absolved of blame, anyway, since the whole situation was Jimmy’s fault.)

“I told you, it’s complicated.”

“That’s not an answer, it’s a Facebook status.”

“Yeah, well. Still true.”

Not the worst bit, but a punchline Jimmy could’ve done without, even so: a package in the post, three days after the PCA awards. A phone charger. He must have left it in Ali’s room, after Chance to Dine. No note, but he knew the handwriting on the envelope. He texted to say thanks, spending what felt like hours choosing his words. Got a reply two days later. That’s pretty much how it’s been, in the month since Jimmy last saw the other man.

He hears Broady draw in a breath, let it out.

“Sounds like I need to put some more beers in the fridge.” There’s no chance to get a word in edgeways; Broady is striding back to the kitchen, kicking a pair of trainers from his path without breaking stride, or pausing for breath. “Good job you’re staying over. Plenty of time to talk.”

Jimmy seriously considers making a run for it. Whatever happened, he wonders, to blokes just talking in grunts? Time-honoured, that: go down the pub, have a pint or three, bemoan the football in monosyllables, go home. But no, all _his_ fucking mates have to be _sharers_.

There’s a lot of clinking coming from the kitchen. Jimmy swears under his breath, wavers some more, then slumps down onto the sofa with a long-suffering groan.

A more detached part of him is grudgingly impressed that the Ali thing’s beaten the more obvious gossip to the punch. Broady’d never normally let something get in the way of a chance to bitch about Kev; especially not with the low-hanging fruit of the dreaded Book’s release. And yet here the other man is, back through the doorway, clutching several more opened bottles. He’s got a smile on his face that says _reassuring_ , or is at least hovering roughly in the vicinity of it.

Jimmy sinks most of his first bottle in one grumpy go.

Broady plonks the extra beers on the coffee table, and takes the armchair to Jimmy’s left; switches off the muted TV. “Go on, then.”

Jimmy slumps deeper into the sofa cushions. “Wish I’d never said yes to this sodding rugby match.”

Broady ignores that. “You didn’t take my advice, did you? About breaking up with him? Because I didn’t mean it. Well, obviously I _meant_ it, but I didn’t _mean_ it—”

“No.” Jimmy wrestles with the words he needs to explain why _breaking up_ would be the wrong way to describe it even if he had taken Broady’s advice; gives up. “I— Well. I don’t know. I just wanted to… sort things out a bit. Make sure both of us knew where we stood.”

“That sounds… alarmingly sensible.”

“No need to sound so surprised.”

(First Swanny, now Broady. Why do all Jimmy’s mates act like he’s clueless?)

“But he didn’t take it well?”

Jimmy shrugs; his shoulders feel tight, and uncomfortable. “I don’t… _think_ so?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. We’ve never really talked about… you know, our wives.”

Broady blinks at him. The bruises of fast-ball bouncer and nose surgery have gone, Jimmy notices; almost like they’d never been. “Wait… when did you get together?”

“End of June.”

The other man nearly chokes on his beer. “The relationship’s been going on since _June_ , and this was the first time you’ve talked about your wives?”

Jimmy picks at the label on his empty bottle, refusing to acknowledge Broady’s amusement. “It’s not a relationship.”

“It _is_ a relationship. When you’ve been shagging someone for four months, it’s a relationship.”

“You’re as bad as Swanny.” Jimmy lets his head drop back against the sofa, closing his eyes. “It’s not a romance. It’s not a joke, either.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s…” Jimmy shrugs; gestures at nothing with his bottle. He feels like he’s been caught out, somehow. “It’s sex. It’s just… fun.”

“So it’s not a joke, but it’s fun. Huh.” Broady pauses; drains the rest of his current bottle. “Doesn’t _sound_ like you’re having much fun at the moment.”

Jimmy vents his exasperation in a short, sharp growl. “Enough.”

“Fine. I’ll stop trying to understand. But it is _so_ a relationship.” The last is muttered; when Jimmy turns a glare on him, Broady throws up his hands, defensively. “Okay, _okay_. The most important thing now is that you want to get it sorted, right? I mean, you want to carry on _not_ being in a relationship with him.”

Jimmy reaches for another bottle while he thinks. “Yeah…” Washes down guilt and regret with a generous swig of lager. “But I’m not going to see him, am I? I’ve been sentenced to the care home for knackered bowlers until Christmas.”

The medical team delivered their final verdict this morning; Jimmy’s out of the Sri Lanka tour. There’ll be a press release in a day or two. It’s why he’s here, really; Broady told him to come down so they could commiserate together over their creaky knees.

A sly smile suddenly blooms on Broady’s face. “Why don’t we ask him if he wants to join us tomorrow night? Sure I can get another ticket."

Jimmy has to work quite hard not to let his sudden jolt of excitement show. He reminds himself that Ali probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near him. “He’s at home with a six-month-old. Probably doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Go on. It’d be good to see him.”

“Whatever.” Jimmy shrugs and looks away, like he’s not that bothered one way or the other. “Call him, then, I guess.”

“ _You_ should call him.”

“Nah, you do it.”

Silence. Jimmy risks a glance at the other man. Broady’s staring at him.

Jimmy picks at the label on his new bottle. “Why me?”

Broady stares at him some more, then mutters something under his breath, and gets out his phone. Jimmy watches the other man tap at the screen; realises he’s holding his breath. He decides this would be a good time to focus on drinking beer.

“Hi, Cooky. You good? Great, great. Jimmy wants to speak to you.”

Jimmy somehow manages to inhale lager. (It hurts.) He starts to shake his head, alarmed, but Broady has already turned and thrust the bloody phone against Jimmy’s ear, and Jimmy can hear Ali’s voice, intimate and distant, “…sure this is… I mean, like, I don’t—”

Jimmy’s throat aches. He clears it, awkwardly. “Hi,” he says, and the sound of Ali’s voice shuts off, immediately.

The response is a long time coming. “Hello.” A brightness to it that sounds forced.

“I, uh…” Jimmy can’t get into it now; Broady’s sitting right here, so Jimmy can’t say what he should, what he _wants_ to say. “How’ve you been?”

Another pause, then: “Fine.”

Jimmy huffs a laugh, with no humour in it. No doubting what _that_ means. “Yeah. Me too.”

More silence.

Jimmy knows he’s going to have to bite the bullet. He swallows, and says, “So. Broady’s suggested—” There’s a sudden, dull impact against his calf. He covers the phone, and glares at Broady. “Ow. _What_?”

“Don’t say it was my idea. Say it was yours.”

“Will you _leave_ me alone?”

“Trust me.”

Jimmy sighs, and uncovers the phone. “Look, me and the blond idiot sat next to me are going to the rugby tomorrow night. Leicester. It’d— Well. Broady can get another ticket. He’s got _friends_. Supposedly. First I’d heard about it. But anyway. We’d like to, you know, see you. If you reckon you could put up with us for an evening.”

“I’ve coped all right with you both before,” Ali says, drily. Then: “I’ll need to… Let me check with Alice.”

Jimmy can’t tell if this is a deliberate dig, or a simple statement of fact. (You don’t leave your partner home alone with the baby; not without negotiation.) “Uh. Right then.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

When Jimmy hangs up, Broady’s failing to hide his curiosity. Jimmy just shrugs.

Broady sinks into the sofa back with a sigh. “Anyone ever tell you you’re impossible?”

“Everyone, all the time.”

“Look, you need to say that _you_ want to see him. Tell him you miss him.”

“Did you _hear_ me when I said this isn’t a joke?”

“All I’m saying is, you have to put yourself out there. Climb down from your high horse a bit. Trust me, I’ve been in your position, it’s not—”

“He’s talking to his _wife_ , all right? The wife he’s _cheating_ on, because of me.”

“He’s a big boy, Jim. He can make his own choices. And do you _really_ think you’re the only ones who’ve ever done something like this?”

Swanny, Jimmy remembers, said something very like this, once. He’s sure you’re meant to have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other; not devils on both. “Doesn’t make it right.”

“Right and wrong are relative.”

He gives Broady a look. “No. No, they’re not.”

Broady throws up his hands. “Who knows. But you can’t help who you— How you feel. Tell him you want to see him. Where’s the harm?”

Those bloody blue eyes are too sharp by half. Jimmy looks away. “It won’t work.”

“Maybe not. But it’ll be true. Won’t it?”

Jimmy retreats to the loo, as he generally does in these situations. Starts and deletes a message, three times. ( _It’d be nice…_ : too bland. _I want to…_ : too demanding. _Please…_ : too needy.) At last, he sends this:

_I’m sorry_

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes.

_will be there text me the details_

He doesn’t know how to feel about this, any of it; but it’s a different flavour of confusion, at least. When he gets back in the living room, Broady looks up from his own phone, and grins.

“Good news?”

Jimmy ducks his head to hide a smile he can’t fight. “He’s coming.”

Broady smirks, and puts on a knowing voice. “Oh, _really_? Fast work, Casanova.”

Jimmy deliberately barges into Broady’s legs as he walks past to sit down. “Are you going to be like this tomorrow night?"

"Chances are, yeah."

Jimmy grunts his disapproval. They’re quiet for a while, drinking the lager.

Then Broady says, in a different voice, “I really have been, you know. In the same position.” He rubs his nose with one long forefinger, slowly. “I, uh… Still am, actually.”

Jimmy frowns at him. “What position?” Light dawns, sluggish and incredulous. No matter how hard he stares, the other man’s expression doesn’t waver; there’s no suggestion that he’s winding Jimmy up. “… _Who_?”

Now Broady does laugh. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Jimmy has no intention of taking the bait. Not worth the petulance if he gets it wrong. “I _honestly_ don’t.”

(Part of him wants to say Kev, even so; it might get him thrown out of the flat, but Broady’s outrage would be the stuff of legends.)

“Oh my god. I can’t believe you’re this dense. Right.” Broady taps at his phone again. “Hiya, Cooky. Yeah, I know, we can’t leave you alone tonight. I just need you to settle an argument between me and your boyfriend.” He pauses, swinging his head from side to side. “Yeah. Yes. I know. Cool. You’re just _very_ good friends. Sure, sure. Right, I’m going to put you on speaker.” Broady messes with the screen a moment, then puts the phone down on the table. “Can you still hear me, Cooky?”

There’s a pause. “Yes…” Ali sounds wary. Jimmy can picture his expression.

“Right. So. Say I was sleeping with one of our teammates. Past or present. If you had to guess… if someone asked you to put money on it – who would you reckon it was?”

“Who _you’re_ sleeping with?”

“Yep.”

The slightly tinny sound of Ali chuckling. “How serious an answer are you looking for?”

“Serious. Jimmy says he’s got no idea. I’m testing a theory that he’s missed the completely obvious.”

“Oh. Well. What do I get if I win?”

“Bragging rights tomorrow evening.”

“Okay.” Ali clears his throat. “Okay. I’m going to go with… you’ll have to imagine a drum roll here… Finny.”

Broady cheers. Jimmy blinks, then shrugs. _Huh_.

“Suppose it makes sense,” he says. “Pair of lanky pretty boys like you.”

He resists the urge to make a crack about whether they’ve ever found a bed big enough for them. He knows exactly how Broady would choose to take that joke, and there’s going to be enough smugness over the next twenty-four hours as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Jimmy would be missing the Sri Lanka tour [was announced on 4th November](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/cricket/29906947), the day after this chapter is set.
> 
> I've written a couple of fics about Broady and Finny's relationship: ['An Hour Behind the Summer'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3351530), which is set in June 2014, and ['What We're Leaving Out'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4718648), set in January and February 2015 (i.e. after this current Jimmy/Cooky series).
> 
> Edited to add: This chapter was inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/StuartBroad8/status/529370654433624064); once the idea of Jimmy staying at Broady's place the night before the rugby match had lodged itself in my head, the idea of Broady using it as a chance to have a heart-to-heart with Jimmy just seemed kind of inevitable, really.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split the last chapter in two, for length; the rest will be up next Friday.
> 
> [Here are the boys at the rugby](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/153046090717/bibliolicious-knockmeforsix-once-again-my).
> 
> NB This part in the series is deliberately all told from Jimmy's PoV (and so the next chapter will be as well); the fourth part will be all Alastair.

The pub’s packed. Broady’s other guest for the evening, Titch, proves his worth almost immediately: with eye-watering speed, he ducks and weaves across the room to claim a table about half a second after it comes free. Broady, predictably, smirks as he saunters past the group of large, disgruntled men beaten to the punch by Titch.

“You’re going to get us beaten up,” mutters Jimmy.

Broady pats Jimmy’s shoulder. “Chill. It’s not that sort of place.”

Jimmy’s pretty sure Broady could _make_ it that sort of place without much more effort, but decides against saying that out loud. He’s going to play nice this evening. (If only in the hope the other man might do the same when Ali arrives.) Instead, he detours to the bar, to buy the first round.

When he reaches the table, Broady and Titch are deep in conversation about the match to come and it’s a bit too easy for Jimmy to zone out. He gets away with it, more or less, until the pint glasses are empty and Titch is heading to get the next ones in.

Broady slips his phone out of his pocket. Smiles before he puts it away again. “Finny says hi.”

Jimmy lets his head sink towards his chest. “I know.” (One thing he discovered last night: give Broady a chance, and he’ll talk more or less non-stop about Finny. Still, it took Jimmy’s mind off things.) “So you keep telling me.”

“ _Finny_ keeps telling _me_. I think he’s quite excited about…” –Broady glances around, lowers his voice— “you know, your news.”

Jimmy assumes his best grumpy expression, although it’s harder than it might be; excited Finny is all too easy to picture (stupid hair bouncing over big, brown eyes; arms everywhere). He goes deadpan. “Is he really.”

“Yep. I’m under orders. He’s expecting _all_ the gossip from tonight.”

Jimmy dreads to think what _gossip_ means, in this context. He’s beginning to think he’ll have to be even more careful than he was _before_ Broady found out.

Which prompts the question – but no, Titch is back with the drinks.

Jimmy’s second pint goes down more easily than the first. At a certain point he realises he’s way ahead of the other two, and is idly choosing the best words to mock them for being lightweights, when he sees Broady’s face change, and feels a foot connect with his shin.

“Behind you,” says Broady, not subtly in the slightest, and Jimmy half-turns, craning his neck. “See,” Broady goes on. “Told you should’ve sat this side of the table.”

Jimmy ignores this, because it’s Ali, as he should’ve guessed. The other man’s making his way over to them with a bashful grin and a hectic flush in his cheeks that (for some reason) brings an answering heat to Jimmy’s face. Ali’s in baggy jeans and a big, padded navy jacket, which he’s unzipping as he moves, to reveal something grey and woollen and shapeless underneath. His gaze is lowered, focused on his task – but when he looks up, it’s straight at Jimmy.

Who turns sharply back to the table, heart in his throat. Sets his almost empty glass down on the table-top; has to grab it so it doesn’t topple.

A buzz of conversation over his head. Another thud against his shin.

Jimmy glares at Broady. “Will you _stop_ bloody kicking me?”

“You weren’t listening,” says Broady, like that excuses it.

Ali’s voice cuts in, mildly, before Jimmy can reply. “What are you on?”

Jimmy glances round at the other man, confused. “What?”

“Just asking what you’re drinking. I’m going to the bar, and you look like you’re ready for another.”

Broady gets a look on his face like he’s gearing up to add to the bruises on Jimmy’s leg. Jimmy hauls himself to his feet. “Fancy a change,” he says. “I’ll come have a look what else they’ve got.”

Broady gives him a nod of approval. Jimmy rolls his eyes, then holds his breath.

\--

The area round the bar is even more crowded than the rest of the pub. Jimmy gestures for Ali to go ahead of him, suppressing the urge to touch his other hand to the small of the man’s back as he does. (Not like Ali’d feel it anyway, through all those layers he’s wearing.) The padded jacket is cool where it brushes against Jimmy’s bare arm, and he can’t think of a single word to say.

It isn’t until they’ve been served – until Jimmy’s pointed at random to one of the taps along the bar, not really caring what he gets, and the barman has handed over two pints – that he finds his voice.

He nods at Ali’s glass. “You not driving?”

Ali shrugs, gaze roving around the rest of the room. “Left my car at Broady’s, and walked down here.”

This isn’t the answer Jimmy’s looking for at all; he wants to know if Ali’s going home after the match, or staying the night, but he doesn’t know how to ask. “Walked? That’s a fair distance.”

“Not bad. Forty minutes.”

“Oh. Right.”

That explains Ali’s flushed cheeks, then, Jimmy realises; a couple of miles in the cold, nothing to do with seeing him. _Idiot_ , he tells himself, and turns to head back to the table.

A touch on his arm, so fleeting it’s hard to even be sure if the hand’s warm or cold. “Wait. Can we talk?”

Jimmy’s stomach drops. “Sure.” He looks around, sees only a sea of faces. “Outside?”

The pub has plenty of ways to get outside. But as they circle the building, it becomes clear that there’s not a quiet spot to be found: every single one of the doors is surrounded by a ring of smokers, huddled together for warmth and wreathed in cocoons of smoke made brightly visible by powerful external lights.

Jimmy’s about ready to give up when Ali, without saying a word, goes striding off across the darkened beer garden. Jimmy huffs a breath – visible, in the cold – and follows, forcing himself to saunter rather than scurry. He sees the other man disappear into a pool of darkness, which proves to be the shadow cast by a great big bush with waxy leaves the size of his palm. This thicket stands between Ali and the lights of the pub, screening both him and the wooden picnic table that Jimmy spots too late to avoid smacking right into.

He swears; too loudly, in the circumstances.

“You okay?”

Jimmy finds the bench, by touch, and – careful to avoid the patch he just spilled beer over – sits down, heavily. He plonks his now half-empty pint glass on the table behind him, then sets to rubbing at the bright spots of pain just beneath his knees. “Yeah.” There was concern in Ali’s voice, Jimmy decides, although the other man hasn’t moved. He sighs. “Between this and Broady, my shins are going to be black and blue tomorrow. Docs’ll be thinking I’ve picked up another injury.”

“Been in the wars, this year, haven’t you?” says Ali, quietly.

“For a change, I didn’t start this one. I’m an innocent victim of the table’s evil plot.” Jimmy lifts a foot onto the bench and rolls up his trouser leg, checking for broken skin. “Not sure it _feels_ much different, though, in the end.”

“Found that out for myself, the past month,” says Ali. “With the book, I mean. Though I suppose the jury’s still out on whether or not I started that one.”

Jimmy, who has gone back to inspecting his leg, snorts. “Well, we all know it’s never Kev’s fault.”

“Nah, but… I lost him, didn’t I?” Ali’s voice is tight, now. “Somewhere along the line, I lost him.”

Jimmy looks up at the other man, now; it’s too dark to see his expression, but the tone says it all. Jimmy swallows, weighing up what to say; how to help, if he can help. He remembers something Swanny said, years ago: _KP’s lost more friends than I’ve ever made. I wouldn’t switch places with him for all the tea in China_.

At last – quietly, but with feeling- he says, “You’re not alone in that.”

Ali raises a hand, lets it drops again; an arc of objection, or confusion. “Yeah, but it’s different. I’m his captain. Was his captain.” He lifts his pint to his mouth; doesn’t drink. Sighs. “I don’t know. I knew it was risky, bringing him back in. Like, if he undermined Straussy like that, he was never going to… _My_ authority was always going to be fragile. I’m five years younger than Kev. Bad with words. Friends with people he can’t stand. I knew, you know, when push came to shove…? But still, I should’ve… taken the high road. Captains should stick up for their players.”

It hurts, seeing Ali beat himself up like this, over someone who never once gave a shit about him.

“Not always,” Jimmy says, more sharply than he means to. “Sometimes they need to kick them into line.”

His eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness enough that he can see Ali’s rueful smile.

“I’ve never been very good at that bit.”

There’s a long moment where they’re both just looking at each other, and Jimmy is suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. He drops his gaze, and shoves his trouser leg back down; the November air’s too cold for this. “Good job, really, or I’d’ve been out on my ear long ago.” He concentrates, now, on his shoe, rubbing his thumb over a small scuff on the soft, dark leather. Clears his throat. “You can, you know… dispute that, if you like. Tell me I’m not _that_ much of a pain in the arse.”

He can see his breath, a mist in the air; feels like he can see the words there, too, waiting for a reply that isn’t coming. He rubs harder at the scuff mark.

“Look at you,” says Ali, and there’s a softness in his voice that makes Jimmy’s throat tighten. “You’re shivering. I shouldn’t have dragged you out here in just a t-shirt.” There’s a slippery sort of rustling noise, and when Ali speaks next his tone is brisk. “Here, take this.”

Jimmy glances up, as far as the hand holding the padded coat out towards him, then away. “I’m fine,” he says, although he can feel himself curling inwards, arms wrapped around the leg he’s still got pulled up on the bench.

“Bollocks.”

“You need it more than me. I’m northern.”

Ali barks a laugh. “And _I’m_ a farmer. A farmer in a big woolly sweater.” He waves the coat in front of Jimmy’s face; Jimmy refuses to bite, and Ali sighs. “Look, I don’t care if the jacket fails your personal style test. Either you’re wearing it or we’re going back inside.”

Jimmy tries, but his fingers are going numb against the leather of his shoe. Deciding he’s put up enough of a fight to preserve his manhood, he grabs the coat, and stands. “Guess you _can_ kick your players into line, after all.”

Ali smiles, but Jimmy doesn’t miss his half-step backwards. “I’ll settle for talking sense into them.”

Jimmy grunts; shrugs on the coat. It’s gloriously warm. “Big enough for both of us, this.”

(This isn’t really true; by Ali’s standards, it’s almost form-fitting. Still, worth a try.)

Ali huffs a laugh; takes his time over what looks like the world’s smallest sip of beer. Jimmy reaches out, snags the hem of Ali’s big grey jumper. Tugs on it, playfully, hopefully; but Ali doesn’t move.

Jimmy gives in. “You wanted to talk.”

“ _Want_ ’s a bit strong. But I guess we should.” A faint smile. “It’ll be a bit of an awkward evening, otherwise.”

 _You’re assuming talking won’t make it worse_ , Jimmy thinks – but Ali making a joke about it has to be a good sign, right?

“I’m sorry,” says Jimmy, before he can second-guess that hope. He lets go of Ali’s jumper while he picks over his next words, even though (truth be told) he already chose them weeks ago. “I shouldn’t have put you in that position. Making you lie to your wife.”

“That’s not—” Ali’s head goes back, chin raised. “You didn’t make me do it. It was my choice.”

“But—”

“I mean it.” Ali looks down at his pint glass. “Forget it. I felt guilty and I took it out on you.”

Jimmy thinks about a phone charger returned to him by post, and how he hasn’t been able to use it all month; how he has worried, absurdly, that something about it might give him away, somehow.

“I’m sorry I pushed,” says Ali. “That day. Sorry if it seemed like I wanted to turn this into something it’s not. Because I don’t. Honestly.”

Ali closes his eyes and rubs at the back of his neck, dragging the thick, unbuttoned collar of the jumper downwards as he does. Jimmy became pretty well acquainted, over the summer, with the skin Ali’s suddenly showing off; he’d give a lot to be kissing it now, rather than talking. Or thinking.

Thinking, for example, about how every time he looks at that phone charger, he remembers the way he and Ali argued over it. Or rather, over a word. Just a word, and yet.

“I know,” is what Jimmy says, looking away; back at the table. “It’s okay.”

He’s lying, but he’s no longer sure what he’s lying about. He remembers (not for the first time today) what Broady said, last night.

 _When you’ve been shagging someone for four months, it’s a relationship_.

“I’m not an idiot,” Ali’s saying. “I know we both have families. But heat of the moment… well. Like you said, I got carried away. I didn’t think about how it might sound, to you. When the truth is… You’re right. We need to keep things simple.”

The words – Jimmy’s words – sound different, coming out of Ali’s mouth. He’s not sure how, but they do.

“Good,” he mutters. “Okay, then.”

“Let’s not— We’ve only got tonight. I mean, you’re not coming to Sri Lanka. Right?”

The stiffness that Jimmy’s been able to hear, creeping into his own voice, melts away. “You heard about the medical, then.”

“I heard.”

“Yeah. Surgery, then off to South Africa for rehab.” Jimmy swallows. “I’m sorry about that, too. Really sorry. Leaving you to do it all on your own.”

Seven ODIs against a Sri Lankan team that’s already won a series against them this year; seven ODIs and all the endless chatter about Ali’s captaincy. There’s a mountain to climb, this autumn, and it’s one that can only be steeper without either Broady or Jimmy to lead the attack.

(It’ll be the tri-series ahead of the World Cup, now, before the pair of them see each other again. Another two months.)

He hears Ali draw in a breath. Feels a touch on his cheek: a little more than a brush, not quite a caress.

“I know you’d be there, if you could.” Ali finally moves: closing the space between them, pressing himself up against Jimmy with a faint sigh. “Taking my mind off everything.”

And this wasn’t what Jimmy meant; stings a bit, actually, that Ali would assume distraction is all he’s talking about. But Jimmy’s got what he wanted, hasn’t he, so why does it matter if he’s got it for not quite the right reason?

Lacking an answer to this, he busies himself in opening out the coat, trying and failing to wrap it around Ali, too, to make a nice warm cocoon for them both.

Ali chuckles, wriggling closer. He slips his arms around Jimmy’s waist, inside the coat; dips his head to nestle his chin on top of Jimmy’s shoulder. “This isn’t _remotely_ big enough for us both.”

“Shame, really.” Jimmy can feel Ali’s breath on his neck. His body’s warming the rest of the way up, now. “Would’ve thought I could rely on you for over-sized coats.” There’s something familiar about this situation; it doesn’t take much to call it to the front of his mind. “Remember that place Swanny took us to, last year? The big park thing?”

A pause; long enough for Jimmy to wonder if he’s messed up, again, by mentioning Swanny.

“North of Durham?” Ali says, at last.

“That’s the one. And it rained, and you _insisted_ I had to share your waterproof.”

“Ha. No, _Swanny_ insisted.”

“Yeah, bloody typical.”

It’s hard to decide which of his friends is more interfering: Swanny or Broady. But it was a good excuse to get close to Ali, though, so full marks to Swanny for that, even if they undoubtedly looked ridiculous, holding a cagoule the size of a tent over their heads.

Jimmy smiles at the air, then, at the breeze that’s picking up, at the light from the pub and the shadow-play it’s making of the swaying leaves around them. “You know,” he says, “I don’t remember a thing about what that place looked like. I just remember spending the whole time pretending I wasn’t watching you.”

Ali goes still; then he draws back, a little way, without letting go. In the shadow, and not for the first time, Ali’s face seems all jaw and cheekbones and eyelashes. “I remember—”

“What?”

Ali shakes his head, silently.

“ _What_?”

“It sounds so…” Ali sighs, heavily. “Yeah. Right. I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you. Okay?”

“So.” Jimmy takes a breath, lets his gaze sidle down to the other man’s mouth. “You, uh… thinking about that now?”

Ali leans in. The kiss starts slow, and careful, a question in every brush of lips.

It doesn’t stay that way. Relief, it turns out, is potent.

\--

Back inside, they bump into a grinning Broady outside the loo.

“Aw, that’s adorable. You’re already at the stage of wearing each other’s clothes.”

Jimmy had completely forgotten about Ali’s coat. He takes it off, hurriedly, shoves it in Ali’s general direction.

“Jimmy was just… _cold_ —”

“Mmm, sure.” Broady’s grin gets, well, broader. “Also, Jimmy, I told you you should’ve shaved. Cooky’s got the worst case of stubble rash I’ve ever seen.”

The smug bastard actually does finger-guns at them as he backs away through the bathroom door.

Jimmy glares after him. “Tell me you’re going to make him field at short leg next time we’re all playing together.”

Ali’s touching his cheek; his expression is hard to read. “Or really, _really_ silly point,” he says, absently.

“Ridiculous point?”

“Yeah… Think I’m going to go find a mirror.”

“It’s not that bad. You’re a bit pink, but I think that’s mostly the cold.”

“Just want to reassure myself.” Ali flashes Jimmy a quick smile. “And, uh, calm down a bit before I go into a room full of people.”

He follows Broady into the loo. Jimmy stands there for a minute, looking at the closed door, not sure if he should go after the other man, or what he’d say if he did. He talks himself down, then goes to join Titch, who so studiously avoids asking where Jimmy’s been that Jimmy gets kind of paranoid, briefly, about whether Broady has said something to him.

However much of a gossip-fiend Broady is, though, Jimmy feels sure this is one secret he’ll keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is a visual reference](http://plumjaffas.tumblr.com/post/111597826338) for Alastair's grey jumper in this chapter. Since in [the only photo I've seen of him on this particular evening](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/153046090717/bibliolicious-knockmeforsix-once-again-my), you can't tell what Cooky's wearing under his coat, and since he seemed to wear this jumper at every possible opportunity in early 2015 (thanks to plumjaffas for collecting the evidence [here](http://plumjaffas.tumblr.com/post/111596369738), [here](http://plumjaffas.tumblr.com/post/113634822048/another-one-from-the-cheltenham-festival-courtesy), and [here](http://plumjaffas.tumblr.com/post/115071968573/the-latest-photo-from-the-grey-jumper-saga-from)), I see no reason not to imagine he was wearing it in late 2014, too... ;)
> 
> Edited to add: silly me, forgot to include a link. The instance of Swanny meddling near Durham that Jimmy and Alastair are reminiscing about, here, is something from an old fic, ['Snapshots of a (Northern) Summer's Day'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2612819).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the previous chapter within the first few days of me posting it last week, you may notice that there's a bit in what follows (regarding KP) that feels familiar. For once, this isn't because of my propensity to repeat myself, but because I took a paragraph out of chapter 3 on Monday (I felt like it interfered with the flow of the scene, where it was), put it in this chapter instead, and expanded on it.
> 
> I realised after I finished it that there's a bit in here (Alastair and Jimmy wrestling over a phone in bed) that is kind of reminiscent of a bit in hannnnie's ['Operation Thunder'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7123360/chapters/16179763). It wasn't intentional, but I guess that scene wormed its way into my brain - possibly because I read the chapter multiple times, and so should you :)

There’s more beer during the match, and after it, in the Leicester dressing room. Broady dials back the teasing – of them, anyway, although Titch gets an earful when he poses for a photo surrounded by enormous rugby players – and Ali seems to relax again.

By the time the three of them are spilling out of a taxi, back at Broady’s, Jimmy’s stomach is in knots. He and Ali have been sneaking little touches all evening. (And some longer ones; they spent most of the match’s second half sitting with their legs pressed against each other, Jimmy having persuaded Ali, in an undertone, that this was vital for helping him stay warm.) All told, it’s given Jimmy the itch: he wants Ali to himself. Specifically, he wants Ali to spend the night at Broady’s, but every time he’s started to ask, his brain has frozen, stalling on the memory of how things went wrong in London ( _I lied to Alice for this_ ), afraid of breaking things all over again.

Broady, for his part, cuts through the dilemma in one blithe stroke.

“You’re staying, right?” he says, to Ali, who laughs.

“Definitely. I’ve been over the limit since before half-time. You guys go in, I just need to grab my bag from my car.”

“We’ll leave the door on the catch.” Broady nudges Jimmy, who’s feeling very stupid indeed. “Tea?”

The pair of them are in Broady’s kitchen, chatting while the kettle boils, when Jimmy hears the front door go and, a moment later, the dodgy floorboard making its usual creak of protest. He stays where he is with an effort, makes himself keep eye contact with Broady.

“Do you never open your post?” calls Ali, from the hallway. His footsteps sound loud on the hard-wood floor.

“Not really. Sometimes my dad sorts through it, when I’m away.”

Ali appears in the kitchen doorway just as the kettle clicks off; navy blue backpack slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed. “But you can’t just leave it all lying there. What if there’s something important?”

Jimmy folds his arms, feeling vindicated. When he arrived, yesterday, he slipped on some letters and nearly went flying. “I said that.”

Broady, who’s pulling mugs and teabags down from a cupboard, looks round, eyebrows raised. “No, you didn’t. You said I should throw it all away.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Close enough.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ali drop his bag by the door, and slip off his coat. He shuffles along the counter he’s leaning against, to make room between himself and the fridge.

There’s a faint rushing sound as Broady pours water into the mugs. “I think we just found out why Cooky’s captain instead of you.”

Jimmy waits until Ali settles in beside him before he says, “An over-developed sense of duty?”

“ _Oi_ ,” says Ali, knocking his shoulder into Jimmy’s; not hard, but enough to send Jimmy stumbling sideways a step. Then, ruefully: “Fair.”

Jimmy, once he’s got his feet back under him properly, barges Ali right back, because you can’t let something like that go. Ali, laughing, falls against the fridge door that Broady’s just opened. A couple of the many magnets there go flying, bouncing off cupboard doors and against the lino.

“Okay.” Broady closes the fridge again with a smirk. “That’s my cue to disappear. Help yourself to whatever, Jimmy knows where everything is, have a good night!”

Jimmy opens his mouth to say something, to stop Broady going; after spending half the evening wanting to be alone with Ali, now suddenly he doesn’t feel ready for it. There’s a troupe of butterflies doing some sort of dance routine in his stomach, and as the door closes behind Broady, he doesn’t know where to look— Tea. _Yes_. He can do that.

He’s stirring milk into the mugs when he feels something brush his shoulders, and settle there. After a moment, warm hands drift down his back, the touch getting firmer as they go; then they slide around, squeezing at his hips and pulling him back, gently but insistently, until he bumps up against the man behind him. With barely a pause, the hands travel back upwards, over his belly (the butterflies go still, briefly, then begin to march to a different tune); they reach his shoulders, hook into place, and stop.

Ali’s arms hold Jimmy like a harness, lips whisper against the back of his neck, and Jimmy hears the tiny clatter of the teaspoon hitting the floor, although he doesn’t remember dropping it. Just for a moment, he thinks he tastes _it_ , the thing the other man likes: the appeal of helplessness, the feeling of someone else’s desire swelling up around you and bearing you away like a tide.

“I wanted to do this,” Ali says, in a murmur. “At the Awards. You looked so good. I was standing behind you at the bar, at one point, and I wanted to do this. Even though I was still angry. Even with everyone there.”

Jimmy’s hands find their way up to his own shoulders, covering Ali’s hands there. For a moment, he lets himself be held, lets the feeling build: the desire to turn, the _need_ to, and the inability; but also a worry, a different sort of itch, _this isn’t how it should play out_ —

He yanks Ali’s hands down from his shoulders; pivots to shove the other man back against the fridge, forcefully enough that the whole thing rocks backwards on its squat little feet. Hears a thud that might be the back of the fridge hitting the wall, and the clatter of more magnets getting dislodged, but he’s a long way from caring about these things; has already claimed Ali’s mouth, by that point.

When he draws back – hands still firm against Ali’s chest, a heartbeat under his palm or maybe it’s just his own hectic pulse – the other man tilts his head back against the gleaming white door and its remaining array of magnets, eyes closed.

“I’ve missed this,” Ali says, and Jimmy’s riveted by the sight of his damp, swollen lips shaping the words. “Being pinned up against— well, the fridge part’s new, but…” When Ali opens his eyes again, they’re wide and dark. He hesitates, fractionally, then stands up straight and slings an arm round Jimmy’s neck. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jimmy, too, hesitates; afraid, again. (Of what comes after the next part. Of the morning, when they don’t have a blanket of beer to soften things, when they don’t have the rush of making-up to propel them past the difficult bits.) He hides this, steering the other man from the room, past the mugs of tea he’s suddenly much less interested in.

\--

A little while later, in Broady’s beige, cluttered spare room: Ali’s on his back, jumper and t-shirt off, jeans open; Jimmy’s straddling his thighs, leaning down for a kiss, caressing fingertips tracing that narrow channel of dark hair down from Ali’s belly button to the waistband of his pants.

There’s a knock at the door, making them both freeze.

Jimmy recovers first. “Piss off, Broady.”

A rustling sound from behind him. Broady’s voice, muffled but cheerful, from the other side of the door. “Just in case. Stay safe, lads.”

Jimmy looks round, reluctantly; feels Ali shifting beneath him. Sticking out from under the door are three small, shiny foil squares, and a sachet that must be lube.

Ali makes a wheezing noise. Jimmy stands to retrieve Broady’s gift; when he turns back, Ali’s gasping, possibly with laughter, and trying to bury his scarlet face in the duvet. Jimmy chucks the condoms onto the bed beside the other man’s head.

“Clearly thinks we’ve got stamina.”

Ali pokes at one of the condoms; clears his throat. “Huh. They’re all extra lar— Oh god. No. No. I’m not going there.”

Jimmy bears down on him with mock menace. “Don’t think about it.”

“I’m not.” A feeble protest, ruined by a snort of laughter.

Jimmy can feel his own, helpless grin mirroring Ali’s. “You are.”

“Help. _Please_ make it stop.”

Sometimes, all it takes to make things easier is a shared, fervent desire to not picture your teammates naked.

\--

The ease carries them through what has to be one of the most giggly sessions they’ve ever had: Jimmy teasing Ali about whether he can get it up after all the beer he’s drunk, Ali taking the piss while Jimmy struggles fruitlessly to open a condom wrapper (he’s half-convinced that Broady’s deliberately given them a joke packet, until Ali grabs it off him and tears it open first time; okay, _fine_ ). Endless amounts of tickling and nipping and pinching, as each of them tries to make the other yelp loudly enough to disturb Broady’s beauty sleep.

Different noises, later. Slow, steady, careful movements, for as long as they can both stand it, then a giddy, headlong dash for the finish line; moans muffled against a shoulder, thigh muscles taut and straining, sweat and smiles and a hand (shaking, just a little) cupping a cheek. Greedy kisses, then tired ones, but either way, as likely to end in laughter as not.

Later, Ali returns from the bathroom chirpy and energised; no hot water left at this time of night, apparently, so he’s ended up having a cold shower. (It’s easy to forget, sometimes, what it’s like to be in places that aren’t hotels.) Jimmy makes the obligatory crack about Ali’s sheep pyjamas, and then they settle in side-by-side.

Jimmy tries to talk about the Sri Lanka series, hoping he can help, somehow, even if he can’t be there in person. But Ali’s reticent, even cagey, and just before Jimmy changes the subject, he can’t help but dwell on the things Swanny said, back at the end of the summer. Jimmy still refuses to believe that Ali should step down as captain; but he’s no longer certain that the other man is on the upswing he seemed to be after the India test series.

Instead, they talk about Kev, again, and at length: losing themselves in memory, in point and counterpoint, chasing the threads of what might have happened differently, and why.

Somewhere in all this, Jimmy finally says the thing that he almost pointed out in the beer garden, earlier this evening.

“He seemed… Was it just me, or did he kind of pull his punches, a bit? All that venom for Swanny and Matty, and then, well… I was expecting it to be worse. About me. And… about you.”

Jimmy, feeling faintly grubby, bought a copy of the book the day it came out; he knew Swanny and Broady would be bending his ear about it, so he wanted to see it for himself, first, without the distortions of their dislike. But he also wanted to check what Kev said about Ali.

He was prepared to be angry; and he was, but not as much as he’d expected. The portrait of Ali had some cruelty in it; cruelty, and a basic unwillingness to see the impossibility of Ali’s position. But there wasn’t the same sense of relish – the sound of knives being sharpened, somewhere just beneath the surface of the page – as there was behind the remarks about Matty.

He realises Ali hasn’t replied. Looks across to see Ali intent on folding the sheet over his thighs into a tight little roll.

“Sorry,” Jimmy says. “I guess that’s easy for me to say. It probably still felt pretty bad.”

Ali shifts his shoulders in an almost-shrug, without looking up. “I didn’t really read the stuff about me.” His hands are still busy, with brisk little movements. “I already know what he—” He stops abruptly, smooths the sheet back into place, without looking up. “He wasn’t wrong about you, though, was he? It was mostly Swanny and Broady who liked to jab at Kev.”

Jimmy huffs a laugh. “I had my moments.”

He’s not satisfied by this, as an explanation; Kev made mountains out of every other molehill, so why not him? Why not _them_? He could’ve been vicious about Ali – Jimmy remembers taking the book out of its packaging, flipping through the index with dread building in his belly, checking each reference to Ali in turn – and yet.

Swanny, when Jimmy spoke to him that night, suggested that Kev had deliberately focused on the safely absent, in the hope that he could still weasel his way back into the team, somehow. Jimmy is tentatively, wearily inclined to agree.

“I reckon he’s angling to come back.”

(Although it sounds paranoid, when he says it out loud.)

Ali shakes his head, starting the rollagain. “The decision’s made.” His head is still lowered; his brow is furrowed, presumably with concentration. “And not even Kev, surely, could think... Not after everything. There’d be no trust. On either side.”

Ali changes the subject, then.

By unspoken agreement, they never once look at the clock. For a while, it’s just like the old days, back when they were still Straussy’s trusted lieutenants, rather than captain and senior player; back when they used to sit and talk for hours into the night, knowing they were stealing energy from tomorrow’s training but always wanting just a little more time.

(Well. It’s _almost_ like those days, except that Jimmy’s naked under the duvet and there’s a big, Swanny-shaped absence in the room.)

When they finally turn out the lights, when Jimmy wakes from a light doze to see that Ali’s staring up at the ceiling, frown creasing his forehead and throat working as he swallows, repeatedly, it’s Swanny’s voice that Jimmy once again hears in his head.

( _maybe it’s not just about you_ )

So he shuffles closer, and tucks an arm around Ali’s chest. He feels the other man startle, pretends not to watch as one of Ali’s hands hovers over his arm for a long moment before coming to rest, lightly, on top of it.

Ali swallows once more; then his eyes finally close.

\--

Jimmy wakes, the next morning, to a returned favour; he opens his eyes to find he’s lying on his side, facing the wall, with a distinctive warmth at his back and the weight of a tanned arm around his middle.

He smiles a bit, relaxing into it, drawing his fingertips lightly, meditatively, over Ali’s hand, which is resting loosely against his chest: the plump ridges of skin at the other man’s knuckles, the softening calluses on his palm, of slip catching practice or whatever it is Ali does at the farm all day. (Jimmy occasionally imagines Ali digging – he’s never clear on what – or lugging around very large bales of hay. Shirtless, obviously.) Jimmy does his best not to think; holds guilt, and something else, at bay for as long as he can. But pressure builds in his chest, in his throat, until he has to disentangle himself.

He stumbles to his feet; braces himself against the wall, waiting for a sudden dizziness to pass. Hears the bedcovers shift.

“This is a rare sight,” says Ali, from behind him. “You, first out of bed in a morning?”

Jimmy clears his throat. “I’m just…” He gestures, vaguely, at the air, without looking back. “Need the loo.” He pushes himself towards the door.

“Maybe some clothes?”

“Uh, yeah. Right.”

After some searching, he finds yesterday’s pants on the thick wool, off-white rug. They’ll do.

Ali, brightly: “Say cheese.”

Jimmy looks up, reflexively; involuntarily. Ali’s holding his phone in front of his face.

All he can think to say is, flatly, “What.”

“Got to save the moment. Because let’s face it, it’s not happening again.”

Jimmy grunts, and leaves the room. From the loo, he pads on cold feet into the kitchen, where he spends a good long while drinking a glass of water and trying to sort his thoughts into some type of order.

He’s been all over the place, these past few days. (Longer?) No rhyme or reason to anything he’s doing or saying or feeling; just tension, just reaction, just fear. (Fear of what?) It isn’t fair; he isn’t being fair. He needs to get himself under control.

He sees the kettle, and the mugs with last night’s cold, undrunk tea, and spies a way to make a start.

\--

The relief on Ali’s face, when Jimmy shoulders his way back in through the bedroom door, is quickly hidden, but unmistakable. Jimmy swallows an apology; Ali is already huffing a laugh.

“Tea! Perfect.” He sits up; starts pushing pillows up against the wall by the top of the bed. “All we need now’s a Sunday paper…”

As Jimmy moves to put the mugs down, on the white wooden cabinet by the bed, he spots Ali’s phone. This, at least, is safe ground. “No, all we need _now_ is for you to delete that photo.”

Ali’s arm darts out to grab his phone from under Jimmy’s nose. “Nah,” he says, tapping at the screen as Jimmy gets back into bed. “I quite like it.”

Jimmy peers at the image being waved in front of his face. His hair’s pointing in at least four directions, his skin’s blotchy with sleep, and his eyes are bleary. “It’s bloody awful.”

“I think it… kind of captures your early-morning essence. Grumpy and confused and yet still, somehow, incredibly good-looking.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Eh, come on. I know you like to say I’m beautiful and all that. But I _know_ you’ve seen mirrors.”

Jimmy glares at him. “Delete it.” It gets him an unrepentant grin.

“Nope.”

Jimmy snatches at the phone; Ali lunges out of the way, leaving Jimmy crouching over empty space, and chucks the phone to the floor. There’s a small thud as it bounces on the rug, then a louder tap-tap-scrape noise as it skids along the lino to fetch up against the far wall.

“Hey, _look_. It escaped.”

Before Jimmy can even start saying _brat_ , the other man’s arms have clamped tight around his waist and Jimmy’s lost his balance. The world spins, and Jimmy’s flat on his back before he knows it, but he wastes no time in turning the tables. The next moment they’re wrestling, bedframe creaking alarmingly as they roll and grab and yank with what feels like a touch more force than usual.

Until at last Jimmy has Ali’s arms pinned above his head, and the fight doesn’t so much drain out of Ali as sidle away with a knowing smirk.

“Fantastic. I surrender.”

Jimmy _hmm_ s, but he helps Ali wriggle out of his pyjamas, because why wouldn’t you. He leans down for a kiss. Lets one hand go a-wandering, toying with the head of Ali’s swiftly hardening cock to distract the other man while he gropes down beside the bed for his own phone. Tugs that free of its charger and switches it on, but holds it out of sight.

“The photo?” he says, at last.

Ali bites his lip; his words come breathless. “Still nope.”

“Then it’s only fair I get one in return.”

Ali jack-knifes on to his side the instant he spots the phone, curling up with his arms covering his head. Jimmy lines up the lens, plays with his settings, and takes a pretty decent black-and-white of Ali’s lower back, arse, and upper thighs. He grunts his satisfaction.

Ali rolls back over, and squints up at him. “Let’s see.”

Bracing one of his own arms against Ali’s, to protect his phone, Jimmy shows off his handiwork.

“Oh, okay. You want some wank material for the long South African evenings.”

Jimmy shrugs, feigning nonchalance; pretending that remark, too, doesn’t sting. “Only so much time I can spend playing computer games with Broady.”

He takes a few more shots, mostly because Ali’s alarm is funny, before they get going properly and he decides he needs his hands for more important things. Skimming through the morning’s work, later, while Ali is out of the way in the shower, he sets about deleting everything, for safety’s sake. Except the arse one. (You can’t tell _whose_ arse it is, after all, and he can probably laugh it off as a prank if need be. Because, yes, now Ali’s mentioned it: he _does_ want some wank material for South Africa. He’s only human, after all.)

But there’s one other he can’t, in the end, bring himself to scrub: a close-up of Ali’s face, half-covered with his hands, but not enough to hide the long eyelashes peeping out from between his fingers, or the laughter animating every visible line and angle of him.

 _Later_ , Jimmy tells himself, putting the phone away with some haste as the bedroom door opens inward to reveal the man in question, damp-haired and eyes sparkling. He’ll get rid of it later.

\--

“So.”

“Okay, then.”

“Yeah.”

Ali tugs the strap of his bag further up his shoulder, takes a half-step towards the door. Jimmy curls his hands tight inside his pockets, lifts his own shoulders to stretch out his arms. He’s never been a fan of goodbyes.

Broady moves in between them, gives Ali a quick hug. “Take care, Cooky,” he says. “All the best for Sri Lanka. And look after Finny for me.”

Ali smiles. “Of course.”

(Later, Jimmy will think of several snarkier things Ali could’ve said, or he could’ve said on Ali’s behalf, something like _Am I my giraffe’s keeper?_ ; but right now his brain is limping along.)

Broady steps back; clears his throat. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Jimmy listens to Broady’s retreat, watching his own feet for want of anywhere better to look. He glances up, briefly; Ali’s gaze is trained on the door, hands firm on his hips. Jimmy reaches for him, thinks better of it, ends up sort of flailing, fingertips glancing off Ali’s jumper.

Ali shifts, and his bag slips to the floor with a thump. He steps in, so close Jimmy can feel breath tickling his cheek. Jimmy closes his eyes; touches the other man’s jaw, lightly, using that to guide himself to where he needs to be as he turns his head. Ali’s arms come around his back and their mouths meet, tentative and off-centre.

Jimmy feels Ali’s lips quirk, and the vibration of his chuckle. “Shall we have another go at that?”

There are so many ways Jimmy could respond – half-formed ways, mostly, dead ends, space-fillers – but he doesn’t, just takes his chance while it’s here; makes the kiss long, and lingering, stroking the skin under Ali’s jaw, his cheek, up behind his ear. There’s barely time for a breath, when they’re done; Ali’s in again, leaning into Jimmy’s touch as he chases his mouth with a soft grunt. This is how they go on, coiling in tighter and tighter together, until they’re out of breath with nowhere else to go.

“I’ll call you,” mutters Jimmy. “If it gets tough, out there… you’re not on your own.”

“It always tough,” says Ali, lightly, as he eases his way out of Jimmy’s arms. “That’s why we play, right? That’s how you know who you are, the tough times.”

(Later, much later – after Sri Lanka, when it’s much too late – Jimmy will think that this sounded rehearsed; like a soundbite already prepared for facing the press.)

When Ali finally steps outside, Jimmy hovers in the open doorway, watching him go: down the steps, across the street, all the way to his car, where he finally turns back, and waves. Jimmy raises a hesitant hand, shoulder-high, and then the other man is climbing into his car.

It’s a wrench, when Ali drives away. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

“You okay?” Broady’s voice, quiet, from behind him.

“Fine,” Jimmy says, without looking back. He closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; all comments and kudos very much appreciated. More soon, in a new part that will be all Alastair PoV.


End file.
